Sunsets, Butterflies, and You
by Roseille
Summary: Miharu likes Yoite's voice. It makes him think of moonlight reflections and the way water feels going down your throat when you're parched. It puts him at ease. /-/ Miharu & Yoite


**SUNSETS, BUTTERFLIES, & YOU**

**Note: **Because despite their beauty,  
butterflies have such tragically short lifespans.  
Sad, cute, huggable fluff written when I felt  
incapable of writing anything.

* * *

_**i'll be like sunsets painted on your eyelids**_

* * *

When Miharu knows Yoite is not looking, he stares at Yoite like he stares at sunsets and butterflies. He looks at Yoite with the very same eyes with which he sees those things that are so beautiful that they can't last long in this ruined world. Sometimes, when he lets himself think, he entertains the thought that God takes those things away because He can't bear to see the world hurt them. Miharu thinks Yoite might be like that. The thought makes his eyes burn sometimes, and he doesn't know why. If he blinks a few times, the burning and the knots in his stomach go away.

"What are you thinking about?" Yoite says.

Miharu likes Yoite's voice. It makes him think of moonlight reflections and the way water feels going down your throat when you're parched. It puts him at ease.

"Butterflies," Miharu responds. His voice is slow and a little bit drawling, perfectly composed.

"Why?" Yoite asks. Mostly, Yoite doesn't talk, so Miharu doesn't mind answering silly questions.

"Because I think it's a little unfair. If you even touch their wings, you ruin them. Why do you think such a fragile creature even exists? Seems like a cruel joke. They only live a couple weeks, mostly—butterflies do, I mean." Miharu feels embarrassed, like maybe with the way Yoite is looking at him with that calm blue gaze, maybe he can see right into Miharu's soul, down to the part that wants to scream and hit something and yell all the words he _wants so badly to say_. "And sunsets, too. There are a lot of them, but If you don't look closely while they're there, you'll never see the same one again."

Yoite blinks a couple times, then idly muses, "When the sun sets, sometimes I can see the different colors, because they stand out so much."

Miharu thinks that Yoite is like a butterfly. The world turned him dirty and took away his wings, and now all he has left to do is to die far before he should. It's not fair.

But the world is so very rarely fair.

_If the world were fair, God would paint sunsets behind the eyelids of the blind and let them see them when they slept._

"Maybe they don't want to live any longer than that," Yoite says, and the silence scatters.

"Huh?" It takes a moment for Miharu to realize that Yoite is talking about the butterflies. "Oh." He bites his lip. "But what would they do if they did want to live?"

Yoite opens his mouth, but closes it quickly. He pulls his knees up to his chest and then leans over against the wall. His hat is off and his soft hair slides away from the ivory-pale skin of his neck.

Miharu can see the blood pulsing through the artery in Yoite's neck with the way the blue-tinged skin (Kazuho once mentioned that Yoite's lungs were not able to absorb as much oxygen as they needed) shivers where the carotid artery lies.

It's not like a beat. It's a flighty thing. Transient and erratic.

Like a ballet dancer, the flight of hummingbirds, or leaves carried on a stiff wind. Like butterflies' wings.

Yoite's voice is soft and his eyes are dim and heavy with exhaustion that no amount of sleep can banish.

"Maybe they want to live," he whispers, slurs. "Maybe they do."

Unspoken are the words, _but they can't._

"They're beautiful," Miharu whispers, and lays down on the floor. He's not sure what he's talking about anymore. His eyes ache and his lips burn and he wants to say _"Live,"_ but he swallows all of the unspoken words and they scathe his throat on the way down.

So he talks about butterflies.

"So many ugly things live longer than butterflies."

Surely that is not bitterness.

"Maybe the butterflies think they're ugly, too. Since they don't look like animals or people and not like other bugs, either. Even if they wanted to be the same, they're not."

There is silence.

Their silences are usually comfortable, something shared and soft and not particularly heavy. But not this one.

Sometimes, silence hurts.

"No matter how much they wanted," Yoite echoes.

Miharu feels stupid, feels hyper-aware of the breath in his lungs and the rapid beat of his heart. He moves closer—just a little bit closer to Yoite, and angles toward him. Knees are pulled up beneath him and he leans just close enough to watch the beat of Yoite's heart and the fluttering of his eyelids underneath the soft curtains of dark, dark hair. "But I think... maybe that's why they're so beautiful," Miharu says.

There is an electric shock in the air, and Yoite's eyes are captured by Miharu's. They are blue and deep, frightened and in pain.

His lips tremble and he buries himself into his coat, turning away. Miharu can tell by the way his shoulders shake that he is crying, but he pretends not to notice. It is silent, so he can pretend.

Miharu never knows what he should say around Yoite, never knows which words will break him. But Miharu has swallowed too many words, and sometimes they just come out before he can stop them.

When the hitching breaths slow and the trembling stops, though, Yoite sleeps. (Deeply, it seems, for the first time in a long time.)

His features are pale and drawn, wan but so very beautiful, like a glass doll.

He is warm. His heart beats, his lungs breathe—_shallow and fragile_—and he is alive.

The sunlight from Yukimi's window is frosty and warm, like oranges and cream.

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**Author's Notes:** MY GOSH, I love these characters. So much. So very, very much. (_retreats to a corner and sobs_) Furry pickles, rainbows, reviews, flames and chocolate are more than welcome.


End file.
